


I Get A Kick Out Of You

by lesbianharrie, wreckingtomlinson



Series: disaster harry [2]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Humor, M/M, disaster harry strikes again
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-18
Updated: 2018-09-18
Packaged: 2019-07-14 04:35:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16033100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lesbianharrie/pseuds/lesbianharrie, https://archiveofourown.org/users/wreckingtomlinson/pseuds/wreckingtomlinson
Summary: “So, how did you hurt your ankle?”Harry sits up a bit straighter, like that’ll make what he’s about to say sound any less ridiculous. “A sassy kick.”~In which Harry injures his ankle and Niall and Liam are terrible friends.





	I Get A Kick Out Of You

**Author's Note:**

> so emma tripped in the kitchen last month and almost died and then this happened.
> 
> it's almost midnight and this isn't beta'ed it's just ridiculous (like us)
> 
> THIS IS NOT A DIRECT SEQUEL TO THE SOCCER FIC. we have just embarked on a series where harry is a disaster in every universe (and also finds louis in every universe, but that's secondary)
> 
> title is from i get a kick out of you by frank sinatra

It starts with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Well, if Harry wants to get technical, it starts with him forgetting to eat all day, sucking down all of Niall’s leftover french fries in three minutes, and then taking Liam’s offer of bread because he’s starting this no carb bullshit or whatever people like to do to punish bread for existing.

He’s just left Liam in the living room to put the Switch away, padding into the kitchen with Niall to refill the water pitcher in the fridge.

But before he can do that, Niall shoves his cup under the spout and drains it of the last of the water.

“I just really wanted cold water. You know?” he asks, as though Harry doesn’t know what cold water is.

“Yes, well, I just really want to make my PB&J, you know?” Harry snipes back, yanking the pitcher away and refilling it. “Can you see if my bread is still on my shelf, or did Liam throw _all_ the carbs in the apartment away? If he touched my bread, I’m evicting him.”

On second thought, it’s probably not a great idea to let Niall go rummaging in his food, but whatever. He needs to go grocery shopping so the most Niall can steal from him are raisins.

“Hey, who the fuck left your bread bag open?” Niall wants to know, holding the bag up. “But there’s four slices.”

“Oh, thank baby Jesus, _yes_ !” Harry raises his hands. “I can make a PB &J now _and_ a PB &J for breakfast!”

“You do whatever you want, it’s your bread.” Niall throws the still-open bag at Harry’s face.

“I am going to do exactly what I want, thank you very much.” Harry flips his hair and kicks a foot up in excitement.

Niall looks confused, but laughs and does a little kick too. What a good sport he is.

“Wooo!” Harry kicks again, and that’s when it all goes to shit.

Liam walks into the kitchen right as Harry rolls his ankle and wipes the fuck out on the tile floor.

“Are you choking?!” Liam yells, standing completely in place and making no move to help him. “Are you choking?!”

Niall, being Niall, immediately bursts into cackling laughter.

Harry grits his teeth, smacking a palm against the counter. “Quiet, please.”

Niall stops laughing once he’s realized Harry is on the floor. “Wait, are you really choking?”

“What could I possibly be choking on?” Harry yells. “I haven’t even made a sandwich yet!”

“Peanut butter gets sticky, bro.”

“No, jelly’s sticky. Peanut butter just sticks to the roof of your mouth,” Liam says.

“You just said it sticks, so why would it not be sticky?” Niall demands.

“I think I broke my ankle,” Harry mumbles, but Niall and Liam continue their peanut butter and jelly argument right over his head.

“But jelly is a different kind of sticky,” Liam insists. “Like you know how tree sap just never lets you live your life once you’ve touched it? That’s jelly-sticky.”

Niall squints at him. “Where could you possibly be going around touching tree sap in this part of Boston?”

“Have you never touched a goddamn tree in your life? What’s childhood like in Ireland? Do you just stare at trees and dream about climbing them?”

“What’s childhood like in America that you climb trees instead of...I don’t know, playing tag or something else normal?”

“Can someone _please_ call 911?” Harry interrupts. He almost wishes Niall had climbed a tree as a child, because then he might have fallen out of it and then he might know the pain Harry’s currently experiencing.

“Fuck no, I’m not paying for an ambulance!” Niall grabs his wallet. “You’re not dying. We’re taking an Uber.”

“An Uber?” Harry shrieks, making an effort to scramble to his feet but tripping again.

“Do you want ice?” Liam’s asking now. “Do you want water? Do you want to sit down or something?”

“I _want_ to not die in an Uber,” Harry declares. “And that’s that.”

~

The next thing he knows, Harry ends up with his leg on Liam’s lap in the backseat of a Toyota Corolla while Niall tries to convince the driver there’s nothing wrong or unusual about the situation. It’s not like he can make the poor guy forget they’re driving to an urgent care clinic.

Liam, god bless his soul, offers to massage Harry’s leg to take the pain away. “Liam,” Harry says, trying to remain patient, “how the fuck is karate chopping my shin going to do anything for my ankle? You’re going to end up breaking my shin as well and then I could probably sue you.”

“You don’t have the money to hire a lawyer to sue me,” Liam says, but immediately stops karate chopping Harry’s shin.

When they finally pull up in the parking lot of the urgent care, Harry realizes they don’t have a plan.

“So how are we doing this?” Harry asks. “Because I’m not walking all the way over to the door.”

“I can ask them for a wheelchair.” Liam offers, already out of the car and letting Harry’s leg flop against the seat.

“No, that’s embarrassing!” Harry whines. “I don’t need a wheelchair.”

“Oh, _that’s_ embarrassing,” the driver mumbles. Harry shoots him a look, making a mental note to make Niall uncheck the ‘good conversation’ tab on the feedback form.

“If it’s really broken, you should probably get a wheelchair,” Liam insists.

And Harry knows he made a rather Big Deal about this, but. “I’m going to hop.”

Niall bursts into cackles again. “You’re gonna hop all the way over there. Yeah, sure. Break your good ankle while you’re at it and then you’ll really need a wheelchair.”

“Then I’ll just drag my way across the parking lot!” Harry counters just to be contrarian.

“Will you assholes get out of my car?” the driver snaps. “I have other people to pick up, you know.”

“You know what? Fine!” Niall huffs, slamming his door shut and wrenching open Harry’s. He grabs Harry under the armpits and pulls him out of the car.

“Niall, what the fuck?!” Harry squeals as Liam lunges to catch his ankle before it bounces against the concrete.

The car speeds off as Niall begins to half-drag, half-support him toward the clinic. It's a painful, annoying ten minutes, but they do manage to finally get Harry through the sliding glass doors and checked in. The receptionist gives them a pitying smile as she takes down Harry's information and tells him to have a seat.

“Do you want us to come in with you?” Liam asks, his grip on Harry’s elbow tightening.

“No, _Mom_.” Harry shakes him off, immediately wobbling and nearly falling onto a pregnant woman in a wheelchair. She screams. Harry screams. Liam screams. There’s a lot of screaming.

A few chaotic minutes later Harry is alone in the examination room. He hauls himself up onto the table, the paper tearing as he tries to arrange himself into a comfortable position to wait for whoever’s going to see him. He hopes it’s someone blind, deaf, or completely non-judgemental of him and his questionable life choices.

Instead the most beautiful man he’s ever seen comes waltzing in wearing light blue scrubs with cartoonish bees on the shirt. Harry can’t believe god sent his exact type to ankle-shame him on this unholy Tuesday.

The man smiles at him, eyes crinkling. Harry tries not to think about how his eyes are almost the exact same blue shade as his scrubs. “Hello!”

“Good evening,” Harry says, like an idiot would. Thankfully, the man doesn’t seem to care too much.

“I’m Louis, and I’ll be taking care of you today”—he glances at the laptop screen—“Harry.”

“That’s me.” Harry raises his hand, realizing a moment too late that there’s no one else in the room with him.

Louis, however, takes pity on him and looks around a bit before snapping his gaze back at him.

“Ah, Harry, there you are!” He waves a hand dramatically before sitting across from Harry. “So, how did you hurt your ankle?”

Harry sits up a bit straighter, like that’ll make what he’s about to say sound any less ridiculous. “A sassy kick.”

“A...sassy kick,” Louis repeats.

“A sassy kick.”

“I see,” Louis says with a nod, slowly typing said information into Harry’s file. “And...have you injured yourself doing this sassy kick before?”

“Well, here’s the thing. I’ve never really done this particular sassy kick before,” Harry admits, feeling his face turn a bit red.

“Was it an advanced move?” Louis asks, not looking up from his screen.

“I probably should have stretched, yes.”

“And tell me, Harry, were you intoxicated while attempting this sassy kick?” Louis asks, clicking around on the laptop.

“Erm, no,” Harry admits. “I was trying to make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.”

Louis blinks at him. He looks like he wants to say something desperately but Harry knows he’s a professional nurse and would probably get fired for calling him a hopelessly self-destructive noodle. “I—” He stops and shakes his head, then tries again. “So, you—” He pauses again before he sighs, closes his laptop, and pushes it across the counter.

“So I have a few questions off the record.”

Harry nods.

“First of all, why were you making a PB&J at 11:15 at night?”

“Why wouldn’t I make a PB&J at 11:15 at night?” Harry counters. “Isn’t that the point of a PB&J? A classic, every time of the day sandwich. It’s salty, it’s sweet, it’s bread. Perfect for morning, afternoon, or 11:15 at night.”

“Are you in the habit of making PB&Js at 11:15 at night?”

“When the mood strikes.” Harry shrugs. “I don’t really keep a chart.”

“And the sassy kick. Was it like this?” Louis kicks a foot out half-assedly.

“No, it was with conviction. Point your toes a bit.”

Louis does what he says. “That?”

“A little higher. And, like, sassier?”

“Are we talking a theater kick?”

“Exactly!”

Louis replicates the kick, and Harry applauds. “Yes! That was beautiful.” He pretends to wipe a tear from his eye.

“Okay, so now that I know the semantics of this sassy kick I’m even more confused.” Louis drags his tablet back towards him. “So...how exactly did this kick cause you to hurt your ankle?”

Harry pouts.

“I bet it was Niall’s fault. He was supposed to clean the floors in the kitchen this week but of course he didn’t. I bet I slipped in some gross butter or Irish beer.” Harry snaps his fingers, sitting up. “Or, he _did_ clean the floors, and he did too good of a job and I slipped on the cleanliness.” He sits back in his chair, folding his arms. “This truly is a catch twenty-two for Niall. Damned if you clean, damned if you rot.”

Louis is staring at him, unblinking and owlish. “So you’re saying this Niall caused this?”

“Probably.”

“Well that’s a completely different conversation. I need to file a police report.”

“What?!”

Louis opens his laptop again and begins clicking around. “Yup, if an injury is caused by a third party they’re liable for charges. I’ll need to contact his insurance and see if he can cover any damages in case you want to press charges.”

“No, no, wait!” Harry waves his hands around frantically. “Don’t listen to me, it was my fault. I should have been more careful.”

Louis bursts into laughter.

“Did you...did you just lie to me?” Harry sputters.

Louis turns the laptop in his direction. Solitaire. “Gets them every time.” He laughs, dragging his chair over to where Harry’s already taken the liberty of propping his foot up on his balled-up donut hoodie. “So let’s take a look at this. Mind if I…?” His hands hover over Harry’s ankle.

“No, go ahead.”

Louis takes his time, gently poking at the swollen area and feeling around, making little humming noises to himself as he does. Harry wishes they had some music on in here, or something. Like elevator music, but for doctor’s offices. Hey, maybe he could invent a new genre.

“Good news!” Louis announces, sliding his chair back a few feet. “It’s just a sprain, and a minor one. You’ll be fine.”

“So it’s not broken,” Harry says, just to clarify.

“Nope! The swelling should go down with some ice and rest.” Louis gives him a broad smile and a thumbs-up, but Harry isn’t having any of that.

Harry crosses his arms and pouts again. Louis’s brow furrows. “I thought that would be good news. A minor sprain means you can go back to doing sassy kicks in a few days.”

“I just made kind of a big deal about getting here,” Harry mumbles. “I hopped all the way down three flights of stairs. There was a gross Uber and a crabby driver involved.”

“So you... _wanted_ a broken ankle?”

“I think my friends want a broken ankle.”

“They’ll probably just be happy you’re okay,” Louis says in a clear attempt to make Harry feel better. But Louis doesn’t know his friends.

“Can I have a cast anyway?”

“What the fuck do you want a cast for?”

“Are you supposed to curse in front of patients? First you lied, now you’re swearing?”

Louis blinks at him for a moment before turning around to the cabinets. He sighs and opens a drawer. “Fine. I can wrap it in an Ace bandage. Will that make you happy?”

“It’s less about being happy and more about being _right._ ”

“Well, you’re neither.” Louis unrolls the bandage a considerable length. “So this will have to do.”

“Fine, fine. As long as my friends think it’s broken, even for like, a minute.”

~

“So it’s not broken after all?” Niall demands the moment Harry limps back out into the waiting room, leaning heavily on Louis’ arm. “Fuckin’ told you. Why doesn’t anyone listen to me?”

“Excuse me? Do you not see this cast?” Harry kicks his foot out, wobbling and crashing into Louis.

“Whoa, easy on the sassy kicks, Harry.” Louis steadies him with a hand on his chest, and Harry tries not to think about that too hard.

Niall just stares, oblivious to Harry’s internal panic. “You do know that’s not an actual cast, right?”

“Don’t insult my battle wounds, Niall,” Harry grouses.

“Are you two his roommates?” Louis points at Niall and Liam.

“No,” Niall answers immediately.

“Perfect. He needs to keep pressure off his ankle for the next twenty-four hours. Keep ice on it to stop the swelling and take some ibuprofen when necessary.” Louis scribbles the instructions on a notepad and tears the top sheet off to give to Harry. Liam snatches it instead.

“Also, you’re Niall, right?” Louis turns to him. “Just so you know, he tried to blame you for this.”

“ _What?”_ Niall gasps, looking betrayed. “How could you?”

“It was a joke!” Harry protests, still trying to grab the paper from Liam.

“What did he say about me?” Niall asks Louis.

“Just that you two framed him in some sandwich conspiracy.”

“He’s lying!” Harry yells. “I bet he lied about my ankle, too. I thought doctors couldn't lie. Isn’t that again the Hippocratic Oath or something?”

Louis puts a hand to his own chest, feigning offense. “What kind of doctor do you take me for?”

“A liar.”

“Nowhere in the oath does it say, ‘I will not tease a patient about sassy kicks and the injuries that may befall him a result of performing them.’”

“Yeah, well…” Harry crosses his arms and pouts.

“Do you want a sticker?” Louis asks.

“No.”

Louis walks over to the receptionist, who’s been watching the entire exchange with both hands clapped over her mouth in an attempt to keep from laughing out loud. In a voice Harry thinks he’s not supposed to hear, Louis says, “Can you please get this one some stickers? Do we have any ballerina ones left? Perfect. Thanks, love.”

Niall elbows Harry in the side, making him sway once again. “You should get his number.”

“What?!” Harry nearly falls over _again_.

“I’m just saying,” Niall shrugs. “I’ve never seen someone go along with your shit this long.”

“He’s my doctor.”

“He’s _a_ doctor.”

“He’s actually a nurse,” Liam corrects.

“Shut up, green bean.”

“Don’t call me green bean!”

“Lima bean, terribly sorry.” Niall waves him off, turning his attention back to Harry. “Pick up that nurse.”

“I have one working leg. I’m not picking up anything.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“I don’t know!” Harry whines, huffing dramatically. “It’s twelve-something in the morning.”

“And whose fault is that, Harry?”

“Here we are.” Louis returns with not one, not two, but an entire strip of stickers that’s at least a foot long. “For you.”

Harry pouts, but takes it anyway. They’re all pink or purple, with fairy princess ballerinas and so much glitter on them that just touching one gets it all over his hands.

“So let’s say Haz’s ankle gets worse,” Niall says, and Harry is _this_ _close_ to using his only healthy ankle to spin kick him in the face. “Should we reach out to you to get it rechecked?”

Louis raises an eyebrow. “You do know I’m just a nurse, right?”

“Told you,” Liam mumbles to himself. Harry’s not going to satisfy him with a reaction.

“Yeah, but you’re already familiar with his case,” Niall insists. “Harry’s quite a difficult patient and you handled him well.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Harry demands.

“It means you tried to hand Niall over to the police,” Louis says, and shit, he has a point.

“Not on purpose,” Harry grumbles in defeat, crossing his arms and then immediately uncrossing them to regain his balance.

“You know what?” Louis pulls a marker from his pocket. “Let me sign your cast before you go.”

“You said it wasn’t a cast.”

“I thought calling it a cast would make you feel better.”

First the stickers, now he’s being patronized. The most attractive man Harry’s ever seen is treating him like an actual toddler. Crying probably won’t help the situation. “Yes, alright.” Burying his face in his hands, he flops down as carefully as he can so he can prop his leg up for Louis to sign his Ace bandage.

“Hey, can I have one of those?” Niall bugs him, tugging at the end of the strip of stickers.

Harry yanks it away. “Fuck no, they’re mine.”

“You didn’t even want them.”

“They’re mine now,” Harry insists, realizing Louis is still writing. What could he possibly be writing on his bandage? Probably the novel of Harry being a complete and utter fool with a PB&J at 11:15 at night.

“There you go,” Louis finally says, capping his marker. “Read it when you get home.”

Liam writes that instruction on the paper Louis gave him earlier. “If that’s it, I guess we should get going then, right?”

“Already called an Uber,” Niall pipes up.

“Of course you did.” Harry glares at his friend.

“Aaaaaand it’s here.”

“Of course it is.”

The last thing Harry sees before Niall drags him down the sidewalk into their waiting Uber is Louis grinning and waving at him from the door.

It’s near one in the morning by the time their new and improved—and potentially high on RedBull—Uber driver drops them off at their apartment. Niall refuses to help Harry up the stairs, leaving him to practically drape himself over Liam’s shoulder to get up the narrow staircase to their third-floor apartment.

“Are you going to see what your nurse wrote?” Liam asks once he’s deposited Harry on the living room couch, sticking Louis’ notes under a magnet on the fridge.

“Do I have to?” Harry asks, but the words have barely left his mouth before Niall is grabbing his ankle and hoisting it up. Harry nearly slides off the couch in the process. “Can I help you?”

Instead of answering, Niall bursts out cackling.

“What?” Harry demands, trying to bend forward to see what Louis wrote but Niall’s giant stupid head is in the way.

“I can’t believe it,” Niall’s wheezing. “He must really like you to leave his fuckin’ _phone number_ on your leg after all that.”

“ _Excuse_ me?!” Harry grabs his ankle and pulls it towards his own face, nearly pulling a muscle in his back in the process. Niall could be fucking with him as some form of revenge. But no, right there, plain as day, is a string of numbers with a cheery ‘call anytime :)’ scrawled at the end. “Oh my god. I have to call him right now.”

“You have to get ice on your ankle right now,” Liam corrects him. “Come on, let’s go to the kitchen and get some ice.”

“Do we even have ice?”

“No, but I’m pretty sure we have a bag of frozen peas.”

“So we don’t have ice and you’re not letting me call Louis? I’m getting better roommates.”

“He’s also working, stupid.”

With a deep sigh, Harry hobbles into the kitchen in search of something better than peas to put on his ankle. Maybe they have some popsicles he can arrange.

What he finds instead is a deconstructed PB&J massacre. The bread and jars are haphazardly spread across the island, a knife jammed into the open container of peanut butter and jelly congealing on the counter.

Despite everything, he could still go for a sandwich.

He makes a quick judgement call and takes a picture instead, sending it to Louis with a big dumb smile on his face.

 **_Harry_ ** _: the scene of the crime._

It’s only when he wakes up mid-afternoon, leg elevated and covered in soggy peas that he gets his reply.

 **_Louis:_ ** _looks like a sticky situation !_

**Author's Note:**

> come visit both of us on tumblr: [keely](http://maybetheyrefireproof.tumblr.com) / [emma](http://lesbianharrie.tumblr.com) and if you really liked it, you can reblog the fic post [here](https://humhalleloujah.tumblr.com/post/178235750971/i-get-a-kick) x


End file.
